The Man of the Mist
by VerboseVolition
Summary: Before Mukuro meets our little Tsunayoshi. He sets out for a stroll, and gets more than he bargained for. Light 69G.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Katekyou Hitman Reborn! And you kiddies wouldn't be watching it if I did. *perverted snicker*

Well, it's my first time writing for Reborn! and... I'm not very happy with it. I used this story as a scapegoat from studying for my exams... I seriously don't wanna study Physics. And I like writing Mukuro. Deranged fits me well.

I kinda got tired near the end, so forgive me if it feels kinda awkward.

So, on with the oneshot.

* * *

**"The Man of The Mist"**

**by Masuda-san**

Mukuro, despite popular belief, delighted in stopping to smell the flowers, patting stray dogs on the head, and long walks on beaches. He finds these activities calming, and for an immortal like him, moments of peace were hard to come by.

Today, he had fancied a trip to the hustling bustling city, walking wherever the noise willed him. The murmur of people around him created a sort of hypnotizing web of sounds, and they willed Mukuro away from the monstrosity that was himself. Mukuro, for once, felt himself slip into a steady stream of life, going along with it, subconsciously, hazily, wondrously. Like a dead flower on a river.

Mukuro found himself inside an empty mall. He glanced to his left and saw large "70% off!" and "CLEARANCE SALE TODAY!" signs and to his right, gray zigzagging gates covering numerous stalls and boutiques.

"Oya?" Intrigued by the empty space around him, _'Wasn't this supposed to be a popular shopping mall?'_ he continued to walk. On and on he traversed the white marbled halls, it seemed to never end! But when Mukuro almost convinced himself to turn back, he chanced upon a solitary store. It immediately caught his attention, being the only light source aside from the ceiling lights in the wide corridor.

Like a moth to a flame, it attracted the illusionist. It seemed so out of place, so lonely, and so inviting. It called out to him.

Tentatively, he placed a booted foot forward into the space, peering here and there for any signs of life. Luckily, Mukuro found none, and continued his exploits.

It was an art gallery.

Mukuro looked to his hearts content at myriads of paintings. Paintings of fields of flowers, paintings of fishermen by the sea, oil paintings of cats on a carpet, different angles of a small house in a field, and drawings of children playing with slippers. Mukuro found the paintings strangely attracting. They weren't exceptionally amazing, and the artist had no particular style, but something about the subjects of each painting caught Mukuro's eye.

From staring at the painting of flowers, which was entitled, "Warmth", Mukuro could almost feel the sunlight on his cheeks, the soft petals on his fingertips, the breeze in his hair, and the pollen in the air smelling so comforting. It felt like, as Mukuro stared at that painting, he could even dive into it.

The next one that caught his eye, three cats on a Persian carpet, brought a smile to his face. He did not know why, but it plucked an unknown string in his cold and heavy heart. Mukuro reached out to touch the canvas, and found it rough and uneven. He felt his stomach lurch and his heart skip a beat. Unnerved, he quickly drew his hand away and looked at the painting with distrusting eyes. Hurriedly, he searched for another.

The next one he found, after glancing around nervously, was a painting of a cute little house with two stories enough for two rooms at most. To its left were more paintings of the same house from different angles and at different seasons. The house seemed so inviting and warm that Mukuro smiled a genuine smile. He walked past the other paintings of the house and graced them with the same expression. Once Mukuro reached the end, he couldn't help but feel a sense of loss. He did not know why, but he did not wish to look at the pictures once more.

He couldn't put his finger on the emotion, but decided he would be better off not experiencing it, so he continued deeper into the gallery, away from the paintings of the small house. The store was surprisingly larger than he had thought it would be.

Further down the maze-like divisions of dirty white plywood he ventured, and the paintings gradually changed, along with the atmosphere. It felt colder farther into the store, and the paintings did not feel welcoming anymore. They felt mysterious and cold, and sad.

A little bit like how he was, Mukuro realized.

The paintings were mostly silhouettes of a man: against the light from a window, standing in the yellow field from the previous painting, standing in the darkness of the stars, arms outstretched, kind and loving.

_'I don't want you painting me, Mukuro.'_

A voice rang out suddenly in his head. It surprised him, to say the least, and it made him stop dead in his tracks. A cold shiver ran through him, and he could do nothing but dart his eyes around in the darkness, searching futilely for the source of the sound. Having found none, Mukuro could not keep still.

So forward he walked, brisker and brisker. The colors and strokes flashed past, and he merely caught glimpses: frighteningly frail hands painted delicately and carefully, orange-ish brown hair that looked _oh so _soft to the touch, a black wheelchair in the center of a dark room, a man's silhouette – '_he couldn't have been more than_ _thirty_' – in a sleek black suit, orange eyes that were eerie and powerful in the dark, and the same man slumbering peacefully, wrapped up in sheets on a soft bed.

At this point, Mukuro stopped and was heaving out air like it was going out of style. Cold sweat beads dotted his neck and uncomfortably, he wiped it away with his gloved hand. There was something about that painting – That man wrapped up in sheets on a bed – it was so strangely calming. He reached out to touch it, and did not feel that jerking feeling. Mukuro stayed there for a while, memorizing the contours, curves, shadows and impressions of the painting, and almost as if in a daze, he walked away from it.

Something else was calling him. Something… something _more._

So Mukuro continued to walk. Empty eggshell white canvases lay littered at his feet, dried paint palettes, and buckets of nothing but dust. They obviously hadn't been used for a while.

Mukuro's footsteps echoed in the confines of his mind. They lulled him into a stupor, and the cold dark store wasn't doing anything to pull him out of it. But he knew, Mukuro _knew_ he was getting closer, _closer_ to something, something he couldn't quite place. It was coming, nearer, nearer, _nearer_—

_'I'm only letting you paint me once, you hear?'_

Mukuro's muscles tensed and laxed at the same time. Stopping in his rhythmic stepping, he looked up.

_'Of course, Primo-sama.'_

_'And you know my health does not permit me to do these sorts of things with you for prolonged periods of time anymore.'_

What Mukuro saw, he didn't think he could describe to anyone else in words. He simply stood there: heterochromatic orbs wide and in disbelief, hands cold and clammy, and his heart a beating, pounding thing in his ears.

One of the biggest and most elaborate paintings in the darkened and cold store hung in full display in front of the illusionist. It seemed untouched by the elements, not even a single speck of dust on its frame, the canvas as clean and fresh as if it had been painted not less than a week ago.

On it was a most beautiful man, the same man that had been illustrated as so many silhouettes, slumbering on the bed, and possibly… the owner of that wheelchair. He had a gravity-defying tuft of soft brownish orange hair, the most luminous pair of orange eyes, and a suit more expensive-looking than any Mukuro had seen. His black cape covered some of his shoulders, and it flowed gracefully down the throne he was sitting on. Behind him was a velvet red curtain and below were sleek black marble tiles.

His face… Mukuro could not describe it well. He had something hidden beneath those breath-taking rubies, a mix of annoyance, exasperation, fatigue, and… something Mukuro could not put his finger on.

_'I can't believe he let you paint him'_

_'Kufufu, well, he did. Aren't you glad?'_

_'Yes… yes I am.'_

Mukuro spent the longest time looking, just _looking_ at the portrait. It was the most detailed painting he had ever seen. But what was strange were the voices in his head. The other definitely sounded like him but, when had he ever had a dialogue like this? And in Italian?

_'At least we'll have something to remember him by.'_

And suddenly, like a humongous tidal wave, the memories surfaced. They hit Mukuro with full force, and he could do nothing but double over on the floor, knees buckling. He covered his mouth, afraid he might burst, too overwhelmed with every detail his mind had regurgitated.

He remembered: his first life, his past, that _famiglia_, the guardians, the meeting, the tragedy, and _that man._

_'Giotto…'_

Mukuro found his hand wet, wet with salty tears overflowing from his eyes. He found that they would not stop, and even after he had gotten up to stare once more at the painting, they were still flowing down his cheeks.

Somehow, looking at the painting calmed him, and he was able to wipe away the last of the tears. His breathing returned to normal, and his hands stopped shaking. He remembered where he was, and _who_ he was.

Mukuro smiled, after deciding he had had enough of staring at the masterpiece. He turned around, set on leaving the place.

_'Mukuro, I love you.'_

His footsteps, this time fierce and determined, led him out of the store. It seemed like leaving a different dimension, a place with odd memories and echoing voices. Mukuro felt like his world returned immediately to normal – well, as normal as it could be – as soon as he stepped out.

But before he could wear his usual mask of cold eyes and trademark smirk, he stopped for a second. He did not dare turn back; instead he pictured his first lover in his head.

"Thank you for loving me, Giotto."

The words flowed out like a prayer, a blessing. They floated into the air, and Mukuro left them behind as he walked briskly back into the bustling metropolis. The gallery remained there, cold and unmoving, with so many paintings and memories and voices inside, and Mukuro vowed to never return.

After all, Mukuro was himself, and not his past.

And so he walked, colorful paintings and painful memories behind him. Briskly and swiftly he walked, under the sky: the man of the mist.

* * *

**A/N:** For those who didn't _quite_ get it... It's supposed to be a story about Mukuro's past with Giotto... And Giotto developing a terminal illness, etc. Mukuro was previously a painter, if you didn't notice.

Thanks for reading, and please review! Constructive criticism is welcome!


End file.
